On Borrowed Time
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Smoke and Mirrors, #1. *Felicity should be dead. Fortunately, the assassins after her are bad at their jobs.* Another way Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time with a global conspiracy, a few missing digits, and way too many weapons. Written for TheBookJumper's Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon. Prompt: pride. M for violence and language. An Assassin's Creed AU. Complete.


**Title: On Borrowed Time  
Word Count: 8336**

 **Notes:** As usual, I have no idea what happened. I'm not sure if that will even surprise y'all at this point.

I'm kind of excited, honestly. This has been sitting around in various forms for the last two years, and so I'm glad to get the chance to finish it. It's definitely the longest of my OHFAT fics, but hey, I have to tell the story that demands to be told.

I am dying to know what you think of this, but if you elect not to leave a review, I thank you very much for just reading it. :) Thank you so much!

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As she struggles against the restraints, Felicity admits this doesn't look good. Granted she's never been a hostage before, nor has she ever been beaten for information, but she isn't sure she has to be an expert to know things are going to shit. While she knows she's more stubborn than they are, that isn't exactly a _good_ thing for her health. Then again, too many crime dramas during her college to years tell her that if she can see their faces, they're probably going to kill her anyway.

Well, if she's dead, she's going to die with some dignity.

"Where is the drive?" Gigantor demands in his gravelly voice again, like the villain in some old Bond movie. Blood drips off his knuckles as a sickening feeling rises in her mouth, and she has to force herself not to ralph. It will only land on her clothes, and she is not going to die in her own vomit, thank you very much.

When she spits, it's too thick to be just saliva. The wad of blood lands right on Gigantor's shoe, and she couldn't have planned it better if she tried. A tooth also glints in the low light. Well, at least that explains the blood.

A dark lock of hair falls into her face as she sits back. "Look, Mr. Bad Guy," she replies with a bravado she doesn't feel, "I'm not going to tell you a damn thing. So if you want the information, good luck trying to break through my encryptions and my safety measures." Her black lips twist into a sinister smile. "I write security software for a living, so I hope you're good."

"I don't want the information, Miss Smoak," he replies.

"So formal," she quips without thinking. "Since you've thrown a few punches and even broken out one of my teeth, I think we're close enough you can call me Felicity."

That earns her a punch to the face that makes her chair topple with the force of it.

For a moment, Felicity can only see stars. Slowly the room stops spinning and she can already feel her eye starting to swell. Not that it matters. She's probably going to die tonight, but the whole point is to stall for time. A glance through the window shows her nothing but darkness. Good. Maybe she's bought Curtis enough time.

She sighs. Curtis is going to be _pissed_ when he finds out about this. At least he'll be able to say _I told you so_ at her funeral. He _told_ her that this story ran too deep into the rabbit hole, that it would only end in her death. But _of course_ she didn't listen—because the truth deserves its day—and her morals had to put her in pursuit of a conspiracy to destroy the city. Maybe that conspiracy theory blog of hers, Smoke and Mirrors (the name is cheesy, but sixteen-year-old her thought it was clever), wasn't as good an idea as she thought in college.

Really, she should have backed off the moment she saw the names on that list. Her source—a not-so-anonymous person whose IP address comes from inside her company, Queen Consolidated—emailed her a little black book of names not so long ago, with references to a mysterious corporation called Tempest and pictures of a salvaged ship that should be at the bottom of the ocean. There's something else going on, something involving some of the most powerful people in the city, and Felicity is going to find out what the hell it is. But once again her curiosity has nearly gotten the better of her.

Which is why she's tied to a chair in a warehouse.

"Good job, Smoak," she mutters to herself.

Gigantor tilts her chair back up. "I don't need the information," he growls at her, fanning hot breath over her face. Felicity tries not to gag; breath mints are too cheap for his mouth to smell that bad. If he wasn't using her as a punching bag, she might have suggested some oral hygiene tips. "I need to keep the information from getting out." This time, something cold presses against the underside of her jaw. The clicking that follows confirms her fears: gun. "If you tell me, I might even let you live."

With a wide smile that makes her busted lip hurt, Felicity finally tells him what he wants to know. "There are three copies," she answers in a rush. "One is on a cloud server that you'll never be able to touch. The second one is locked behind all the cybersecurity I can manage—which is a lot, by the way—on my secure work computer." So it's a tablet and it's hidden in her house, but misdirection is on her side tonight.

Finally, Felicity makes a show of staring out the window. "What time is it?" she asks conversationally. "It looks late. And if I'm right about that—and I usually _am_ right—then the third copy is probably with most of the national newspapers by now." In a stage-whisper, she adds, "If I don't log in within a certain amount of time, it gets sent automatically. Guess you'll be reading about it in the paper."

The blow goes to her stomach this time, knocking the breath out of her and making her feel nauseous all at once. She chokes on a breath—and what's probably another tooth jarred loose. Gigantor cocks the gun and she closes her eyes, but the shot never comes.

Instead, the door explodes.

The door flies inward, covering all of them in splinters of wood. She nearly topples again in the chair, but this time she has the sense to rock forward to keep herself upright. When she opens her eyes again, the new creature in front of her is like nothing she's ever seen before.

He emerges out of the explosion like a ghost, a shadow in white smoke. It takes her eyes a long moment for her to comprehend what she's seeing, but slowly she realizes that he's armed and definitely dangerous. Before the four men can do more than stare, he's in motion. She almost feels sorry for Gigantor when he goes down first, caught in the throat with an arrow. He falls with a gurgling sound, and only then do the three other men spring into action.

Felicity hasn't seen many trained fighters over the years. In college, she covered a boxing match for her sick reporter friend for a little extra cash, but comparing that boxer to the intruder would be laughable. This man moves like a cobra, lashing out with efficiency that could almost be considered art.

The three men don't stand a chance.

Before one can do more than yell, he's already down, felled by the massive sword the figure pulls from his back. A second comes at the figure from the side, but fares no better. Blood blossoms from the man's chest, and it's only after the motion that she realizes a blade protrudes from the killer's hand. He pulls it away with a sickly sucking sound.

The last remaining man makes the mistake of coming at the ghost while firing a gun. He's disarmed within seconds, The man that Felicity is deciding is actually real stomps his foot on the ground before shoving his foot into the man's eye. Blood gushes everywhere, and only when he lets the body drop does the blonde realize that there's a glinting point at the end of his shoe. A hidden blade.

Trying not to gag at the sight of the bodies, Felicity turns her head. When she thinks she can finally look at them again, she looks up to find that the man standing in front stills her blood. He's known by many names and catchy phrases. The terror of Starling City. The man in the green hood. The emerald archer. (A misnomer if you ask her; now that she's seen him in action, she knows he's proficient with multiple weapons.) The one that has seemed to stick is the Vigilante, a terribly uncreative affair that doesn't properly relay how dangerous he is.

Because the Vigilante is a killer—or maybe assassin would be more accurate. According to the police reports she's… less-than-legally acquired, most of his victims are killed by a single strike of some sort—a sword slash, a knife to the heart, an arrow through the eye, or, on very rare occasions, even a bullet to the brain. Typically he targets the affluent and those that protect them, but one thing seems to be consistent: all of them typically have damaged the Glades in some way.

Now that she's looking at him in the flesh, though, Felicity can't understand why they can't remember anything about him. He doesn't just fill the room—he _absorbs_ it. While his muscular build is understated, the green leather clings just tight enough to remind them that, weapons be damned, he'd probably be able to fight his way through an army with his bare hands. The set of his jaw, however, not only confirms that could, but that he has before and would again.

Weapons of every kind are draped across the black belt and his back, including the sword, bow, and several throwing knives—and those are just the ones she can see. His green coat hangs down to his knees, swinging with his steps as he closes in on Felicity, stalking toward her like a wild animal. The sword hangs in his hand, his fingers drumming against the hilt.

"If you're going to kill me, do it fast," tumbles from her mouth before she can stop it.

The Vigilante stops short at her words, head tilting to the side as if she's the anomaly in this room. Then again, maybe she is; everything else is either dead or murderous. "And if it's not too much to ask," she continues, words falling out rapid-fire, "could you at least make sure that I'm found… _after?_ It's my mom. She'll freak out, and I don't think she'll stop hunting for me unless there's a body." She closes her eyes, waiting for the sword swing. "And I probably also need to leave a note for Curtis—my best friend—to tell him he was right about all of this. He said it would get me killed, but I didn't listen. I never do.

"What can I say? Some guy at QC sends me a conspiracy, and I can't help it. I hate mysteries. They need to be solved. So I just had to chase it down and find all this stuff about holding companies and shipwrecks and little black books filled with names. Which meant meeting Gigantor and now you and why am I still talking?"

Chancing one eye, she's surprised to find the Vigilante with the sword sheathed, staring at her as though she's the strangest creature in the world. A war is fought in his expression, and finally he sighs before pulling a knife from his belt. Felicity swallows as she watches him flip it in his hand, hood tilted to the side as if in thought. After a long moment, he mutters something under his breath. Just when she thinks the knife is going to slice into her, the Vigilante instead uses it to cut her bindings before tucking it back in place. "I don't kill innocents," is his reply, in a voice too gentle to belong to such a violent man.

Rubbing her wrists, Felicity replies thoughtfully, "Is anyone _really_ innocent, though? I mean, according to my mother, we're all sinners." Then she shrugs her shoulder. "Her opinion's probably a little biased, though—she's a cocktail waitress in Vegas. But that means you could technically kill just about anyone." Only then does she realize she said all of that aloud, and she cringes. "And I should probably just have said 'thank you' because you're probably considering killing me just to shut me up. If I don't die of embarrassment first."

The blonde thinks that the corners of his mouth turn up for a very brief moment, but it's gone in an instant—if it even happened. "You're innocent," he assures her with a nod. His eyes are intense in the darkness, but she's surprised to find there's no coldness to them. When his head tilts to the side, he admits in a quiet voice, "I couldn't kill you if I wanted to."

He steps closer, just far enough into the light that Felicity can see his eyes under the dark mask. Blue eyes evaluate her the way she has him, piercing and calculating. Without warning, he slips off his right glove, reaching for her. Instinct makes her lean away from the touch, attempting to wiggle out of the ropes.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the assassin declares, reaching again. This time, she notices that his hand isn't quite right; his ring finger isn't whole, stopping at the first joint below the knuckle. His gauntlet twists down and around it, as if using it for a brace of some sort.

While she's busy wondering about what happened to him, the Vigilante's thumb pulls at her lip, just far enough to see the injury where it was split. When Felicity winces, he immediately releases her, his index finger stroking along her cheek where Gigantor hit her. His expression hardens. "I think you've been hurt enough." With that, he pulls the rope away from her hands and ankles.

Felicity rubs at her wrists and studies her swollen ankles as the Vigilante studies the doorway. Slowly he turns back to her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as he gives her his full attention again. "You have two options," he declares. "You can stay here and wait for the police, or I can take you to somewhere safe in the city—wherever you want to go." He turns. "I don't know if any more of them will show up, but the alternative is leaving with me." The weight to his voice says he understands how daunting that idea must be.

"I think I'll stay with you," she blurts without thinking. He only stares, as if waiting for her to change her mind, but the more Felicity thinks about it, the more she likes the idea. With a shrug, she adds, "You're better company than these guys." She motions to the corpses lying around the room, but she knows better than to look at them. Whatever the Vigilante did to them was violent enough for one night. She doesn't need to relive it—and possibly her lunch, too.

This time the blonde is certain that it brings a brief smile to the Vigilante's face. A small noise—like a creaking stair—reaches them and he's instantly on alert, smile fading as he moves in front of her. Slowly he reaches for a throwing knife at his waist with his now-gloved right hand before offering his left to her in offer with the palm facing upward.

Halfway through reaching for it, Felicity notices it: the ring finger on his left hand is almost completely missing, too, removed at the same joint as the missing finger of his right hand. The finger of his glove is cut away there to compensate for the missing digit, but a thick, green band of leather wraps around the remnant, joining with a gauntlet of some sort that continues halfway up his forearm.

Though the blood across his glove should probably disturb her—as should he—instead the blonde finds that she's grateful for the offer, especially when more men could be coming. She takes his offered hand with a lack of hesitation that unnerves her, hobbling as pain shoots through her ankle. It must have twisted when the chair collapsed.

"Asshole," she whispers at Gigantor's corpse.

The Vigilante starts walking forward the moment his hand wraps around hers, though he takes slow steps to compensate for her awkward gait. Still, he makes sure to stay in front of her, as though trying to protect her from whatever lies ahead. It only adds to her bewilderment; Felicity never would have expected to meet the man in the hood and live, much less see him try to protect her.

He leads her down the hallway without incident, pausing when they come to a corner. The Vigilante releases her hand then, holding up an index finger in a silent signal. He glances around the corner before exchanging his throwing knife for the bow, nocking an arrow and holding two more in his hand with a calm Felicity envies. Then, as though he does it every day—and he might, for all she knows—he steps around the corner and starts firing.

It's over before it even begins and all she can do is stare. All three arrows are loosed within seconds, and then he's motioning to her to join him. "I think that's the last of them," he informs her, that modulator sounding less ominous now—probably because Felicity now knows she has nothing to fear from him. "I can take you wherever you'd like to go, Miss Smoak."

Her name on his lips startles her, but it confirms a suspicion: he already knew who she was the moment he let her go. "Felicity," she corrects as she slips her hand into his. It's warm and strong—and helps steady her unsteady shoes. "I don't really do formalities, especially when people just save my life."

"Felicity," he repeats, as though trying the name out on his tongue. He takes a few steps forward, and she walks off-balance behind him on her twisted ankle. "You were lucky tonight. Most criminals are more efficient when it comes to making people disappear." She bites back on the urge to ask if he knows from experience. "If they're this willing to demand answers from you, it might be in your best interest to take some extra precautions. _Before_ this hobby gets you into trouble."

Though she appreciates the concern and the fact that he isn't trying to tell her what to do, Felicity still scoffs at his statement. "It already _has_ gotten me into trouble," she retorts with a roll of her eyes. "And you're one to talk— _your_ hobby is what brought you here." One corner of the Vigilante's mouth turns up at that, but he doesn't respond. "Trust me, the most exciting thing that happens to me is that, occasionally, one of our genius inventors fries a circuit board and sets the lab on fire." By way of explanation, she adds, "I oversee R&D."

Before he can reply, gunfire rings out in the hallway. The Vigilante reacts immediately, shoving her behind him and pulling a handgun from his holster. Instead of firing rapidly, he takes the time to set up each shot. One, two, three shots, each deafening. Felicity covers her ears.

Three bodies drop in the hall.

A gentle hand wraps around her wrist, one that was wrapped around the barrel of a gun seconds ago. "We need to go, Felicity," he says, voice gentle as he pulls her hands from her head. "That won't be the last of them."

"Comforting thought," she mutters under her breath.

The Vigilante is silent as they navigate through the bodies and out of the building. After walking what feels like miles, he finally stops at a silver Mercedes parked against the curb, throwing the trunk open. "It's unlocked," is all he says to her, dropping his arsenal of weapons in the back one by one.

She can only stare, transfixed as the gun and throwing knives are placed into perfect little slots. Last to fall into place is the bow and quiver, both with more care than any of his other weapons. When he unbuckles the belt, it's only then that it gives Felicity pause. "Don't change clothes—I don't want to see your face," she blurts suddenly. His eyes fix on her with a silent question. "I'm sure it's a nice face," she backtracks, "but I don't want to know who you are." She waves her hands. "I just want to go home, open a nice bottle of merlot, and pretend this never happened." She touches her swollen lip. "And maybe put some ice on my face."

He pulls the sword from his belt and places it in the trunk, but leaves the belt in place. The beak-like point on his hood only draws her attention to his eyes, hard and intense but still gentle at the same time. "Get in the car, Felicity," he says, though it's more of a suggestion than an order.

Despite that, Felicity figures he's the only way she can get home without calling the police, and the sooner this incident disappears, the better. She pulls at the handle, sinking into the soft leather seating. Now she understands why the salesman tried to push that luxury model on her. Whoever Cloak-and-Dagger is, he's loaded and has a sweet ride.

The trunk latches with a soft thud as Hood Boy slides into the driver's seat. The engine purrs to life, but neither one of them bother to speak as he pulls out into the low traffic of the late night. His hands on the wheel draw her attention, now that the gloves are gone. They aren't hands she'd expect from an assassin, rough fingers and hands coated in a series of scars. This is a man who has seen the worst of humanity with his own eyes, who has been the worst of humanity.

Absently, she reaches out to touch his right. The Vigilante tenses under her touch—as if she's the dangerous one—but allows it. His hands are callused, as expected, but her eyes go back to the two perfectly symmetrical missing ring fingers. "It looks like I'm not the only one who has been hurt," she notes in a quiet tone.

"The difference is that I chose this," the Vigilante replies evenly. His eyes flick over to her for a moment. "You didn't." A strange sound leaves his throat, and it takes Felicity a moment to realize it was a chuckle, coated with a special kind of jaded bitterness. "Don't feel badly for me, Felicity." He holds up his hand, flashing her the strange silhouette of the missing finger. "I did this to myself."

Her first thought is that he means he chose this life and all that came with it, but then she shakes her head. That's too poetic for the Vigilante, who says exactly what he means. "Are you telling me," she asks, words slow with their weight, "that you _cut off_ your own fingers?" Silence is her only answer, but it speaks louder than any words. "Why would you do that?"

He holds his hand up again, but when he flicks his wrist, a blade appears under it. Felicity jumps, but the Vigilante only straightens his hand out. The needle-like point of the blade appears over the top of his missing ring finger. It takes Felicity a moment to realize that the way it released would have sliced off his finger if it wasn't already missing. "The blade requires a sacrifice from its wielder," he offers a moment too late.

"That's…" He tenses as he waits for her explanation, but Felicity isn't the kind to lend pity to anyone who isn't pathetic. "Kind of badass," she finishes after a moment, and she watches the corner of his mouth twist up. "It's also kind of twisted that you would use a weapon that requires you to cut off body parts, but that comes from someone who knows absolutely nothing about your life…" She reaches for a name she doesn't have. "Do you have a handle? Something I could call you? It gets kind of weird having a conversation with a nameless man."

After what feels like an eternity, he finally offers, "Oliver."

"Oliver," she repeats. It's a good name, even if it doesn't quite fit someone so terrifying. Maybe thinking about him as the terror of Starling City is better, but now that she thinks about it, that isn't quite right, either. Someone terrifying wouldn't have saved her. Oliver it is, then. "Thank you for saving my life, Oliver."

He won't look at her now, instead staring out the windshield with eyes forward. "You shouldn't thank me," he insists. At first she thinks he's just being chivalrous, but then he clears his throat. His thumb rubs a circle into his index finger—something she remembers being called a self-comforting gesture in a psychology article she read years ago. "At the very least, before you do, you should know that I was sent to kill you."

His delivery is so good that she laughs. Those piercing eyes only focus on her for a long moment, and the laugh dies on her tongue. Suddenly she finds herself edging toward the door on her right. Maybe at the next stoplight, she can throw the door open and run. "That does complicate our relationship," Felicity agrees. "And probably something you should have mentioned _before_ I climbed into an enclosed space with you."

A sharp motion sends them careening toward the curb, and Oliver slides into a deserted line of parallel parking spaces. The door locks click, and he reaches across her to throw the door open. It puts them too close for Felicity's liking, but at the same time, it gives her a nice view of his face. His jaw is covered in dark stubble, and a mole sits at the corner of his mouth. A scar peeks out under his right eye from below the mask, small and white. The bridge of his nose isn't quite straight, as though it's been broken before, but it almost gives his face the same impression as the rest of him: _whatever you throw at me, I can survive._

"If I wanted to kill you, Felicity," he explains in a monotone, "I would have already done it." He shifts away from her, motioning toward the door. "If you want to leave, go ahead. I've never held anyone against their will, and I'm not going to start tonight."

Maybe it's because his voice, gentle and hard at the same time, holds some power over her. Maybe it's because he hasn't lied to her—even when it would have been easier to. Maybe it's because she has bad judgment when it comes to men—and a few real prize asses as ex-boyfriends to prove it.

Whatever it is, Felicity shuts the door and crosses her arms. "You know where I live, right?" she asks. Oliver looks at her for a long moment before nodding once. "You can drop me off there."

As if the incident didn't happen, he slides the car back into the street. "Thank you," is all he says. She arches an eyebrow at him, and he explains, "For trusting me." He snorts. "I think you're the only person who ever has."

"I have a long history of bad judgment," Felicity deadpans.

It does the trick: a sharp, surprised laugh leaves him. The sound makes her smile, even if she wasn't entirely joking. Still, something about how the lines around his mouth disappear and his face lightens makes her think that he doesn't often get the opportunity to laugh. Maybe that makes it worth it.

"No, seriously," she insists a moment later. "I do. I genuinely believe in what I'm doing, Oliver, but I have a tendency not to listen to people when I need to. It's only after everything goes to hell that I realize I was wrong and they were right." She shrugs. "It's hubris. Pride." She tilts her head thoughtfully, even as it makes her feel kind of… swimmy. "Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, you know. Guess I know why."

"So are lust and envy," Oliver replies. "I've never heard of them killing anyone."

"That's your job, isn't it?" Felicity asks absently. They both squirm away from her question. "I mean, that's what you do. Kill people. Why?" She snorts. "Let me guess: the greater good." When he looks at her, she shrugs. "That's how people do bad things all the time, Oliver. They find ways to justify them. So how do _you_ justify what you do? What do you say so that you can sleep like a baby every night?"

"What makes you think I do?" he retorts. When Felicity arches an eyebrow, he clarifies, "I can't remember the last time I've slept peacefully. But you're right—I tell myself that what I'm doing is important so that I can live with what I do." The corner of his mouth lifts. "The world isn't black and white, Felicity. Neither am I. Neither are you. The world is made up of different shades of gray. My job is to make sure that no one tips the balance."

Felicity has to admit, she sees his point. Maybe she's too judgmental, but that's just part of her pride, too. "That wasn't fair, was it?" she asks. He doesn't answer, but she doesn't need him to. Pushing a black lock of hair from her eyes, she confesses, "I'm not very good with people. That's why I work with computers. They make sense. Logic. People are… _messy_."

"I'm quite familiar with the mess people can make," is Oliver's reply.

Staring at the twitching corner of his mouth, she finally asks, "Was that humor? From _you_ , Mr. Gloom-and-Doom?" Taking it as the apology it was meant to be, Felicity says, "I was wrong to tell you what your job description is. Let me ask you: How do y _ou_ see what you do?"

He's quiet for so long that she thinks he won't reply. In a whisper that's more confession than answer, he finally admits, "I work in the dark to serve the light." So much for thinking he doesn't have a poet buried somewhere in his soul. A bitter laugh shatters the moment. "At least, that's what I was raised to believe. But now…" He sighs, shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world has settled upon them. "Now I'm not so sure."

"You're questioning the establishment of everything you've ever been taught," she concludes for him. Slowly, he nods. "The world would be a better place if more people did, Oliver." She laughs. "Most people are just sheep, doing what they're told and never questioning it. Of course, the sheep are happier, but it's the shepherds who ignite the revolutions that lead to change."

"I was wondering when I'd see this side of you," Oliver says suddenly. She turns to him. "Your online journal—"

"It's called a _blog_ , Oliver," she interrupts.

"I've read it," he counters. Three little words, and she can find none to reply. "It's… passionate. _Confident_. Some of your skeptics call it paranoia and conspiracy theories—and it is, to some extent—"

"Thank you for that," Felicity snarks with a roll of her eyes.

Oliver ignores her. "—but it's _more_ than that. It's a philosophy. When most people see the world, they see only what they're told to see. But you don't stop at seeing. You don't just observe, you _analyze_. You can't be fed lies because you expect them. You can't be told what to do because you question your orders. And it scares the people in power because they can't control you." He studies her with something that might be admiration. It's dangerous. "You won't _let_ anyone control you." He offers her the barest hint of a smile. "It's a kind of freedom—freedom from oppression. I didn't know what it was until I read your… _blog_."

"It's not freedom from oppression," Felicity disagrees with a shake of her head. "The people in power can still exercise their authority on free-thinkers, Oliver." An ironic smile comes to her lips. "We just know what it looks like when they do."

They settle into an amicable silence, one that isn't weighted or tense. While eloquent, it's clear Oliver likes actions more than words; and though Felicity is more than glad to fill the silence on most occasions, tonight she has a lot to process. And her throbbing eye is making her whole head throb along with it, like the bass lines of those songs they used to play at the club her friends dragged her to in college. Her eyes close of their own accord.

The next thing she knows, a hand is shaking her shoulder. Firm, but gentle. Oliver. Her eyes feel like sandpaper with her contacts still in, but somehow she forces herself to stare at him. Kind of. Her left eye doesn't open all the way, and the throbbing is worse.

"Felicity, we have a slight problem," is all he says.

After a brief observation, she answers, "Understatement of the century." Red and blue lights are blinding in the dark, police cars parked along the entire street. They seem to swarm around her building, and she can see unfamiliar, uniformed silhouettes through the window of her apartment building. "Shit. What's happening?"

Oliver keeps driving, the frown on his face deepening. "Felicity…" He sighs. "You have no idea what you've walked into." The way he says it makes a shiver crawl up her spine. The dark note in his voice makes her think that this… thing she's walked into might be something from his nightmares. And here she thought Oliver was the nightmare. He glances over to her. "There is a faction that controls the world behind the scenes. All of your reality, the things that you see every day in your world… they're the result of this faction. Government, science, technology, heathcare. They're all controlled by this group." As he pulls into an abandoned parking lot two blocks away, he turns to her. "And you have something they want."

"If I walk in there, I die," she concludes.

He nods.

"But if I don't walk in there," Felicity continues, "then I risk Evil Corp—"

"They call themselves Abstergo now," Oliver supplies.

They could call themselves Fuzzy Puppies Incorporated, but that wouldn't make them any less sinister. Felicity is more interested in accurate labels than correct labels. "I risk Evil Corp getting the information I have," she concludes, ignoring him.

"No, you risk _Abstergo_ getting the information if _someone_ doesn't go get it," Oliver corrects. He lifts a shoulder. "No one said it had to be _you_ who walks into that apartment tonight." Before she can protest, he adds, "I know how to avoid being seen. I can slip in there, pick up the drive, and walk out. No one will know I was there." He reads her hesitation correctly. "Unless you don't trust me to return."

"Why would you?" she counters.

In a not-comforting answer, Oliver only mutters to himself, "I've been asking myself that all night."

Sighing, he slips a hand into his coat. A second later, he reaches for her wrist and places a smartphone in her hand. "That is how I communicate with my organization," Oliver informs her in a whisper so low she almost misses it. When she leans closer to hear his words, his nose brushes against her head. "If they find this in someone else's hands while I'm still alive, they _will_ kill me."

Turning to face him, Felicity turns to stare into those hard-and-gentle eyes. He might be an assassin, but she's slowly forming the opinion that he isn't a monster. Her eyes flick to his lips for a second before she licks her own. "They'd have to find you first," the cynic in her replies.

In response, he removes one of the gauntlets on his arm—the one that holds his hidden blade. A second later, he lifts up the sleeve of his coat to reveal a small scar on his forearm. Below it is an even smaller bulge that isn't right to be muscle. "They always know where I am," he answers. Felicity swallows; she was the one tied to the chair just moments ago, but maybe Oliver is the prisoner. "They'll find me if I run." He talks about his death as though it's certain, staring at a woman he should have already killed.

Maybe he _is_ living on borrowed time.

"Take the phone," he insists, "but don't answer it unless you want us both dead. I promise I'll come back for it." Oliver brushes a dark lock of hair from her face, with eyes so intense it makes her swallow hard. "And for you."

Felicity can't help but think that he's missed a calling; with that voice and those eyes, he could have easily been a politician in another life, instilling the same hope he seems to have lost somewhere along the way. "There's a loose floorboard under my bed," she admits in a rush. "There's a safe underneath. It's a numeric keypad—the combination is six two six, seven four three, nine two, eight five." She watches him repeat it a few times, mouth moving without sound. "Inside is my work tablet and a drive. Bring them both—I can't access either without the other."

Nodding, Oliver slips a knife from his belt. She tries to wave it away, but he forces it into her hand. "I have the only set of keys to this car. Lock the doors after I leave. If anyone tries to take you, act like you're going to cooperate." He holds up the blade. "When they drop their guard, use this." He brings the point against the side of his own neck. "Insert here. You might not kill them, but they'll be too preoccupied to worry about you anymore."

"And if there's more than one?" she retorts.

Oliver smiles as he takes the keys from the ignition. "There won't be," he assures her. "We work alone and Abstergo won't think to allocate extra resources for an online journalist who stumbled onto something she shouldn't have. They underestimated you." He winks. "I suggest you let them."

And, like the way he slipped into her life, Oliver disappears into the night.

Felicity locks the door behind him, gripping the knife tight in her palm as she adjusts the rearview mirror so that she can see behind her. With it, she has a full view of her surroundings, but it also gives her a nice view of her injuries. Her left eye is dark and swollen, the eye itself red with the trauma of the blow. Her lip is split on the same side, trailing blood down her chin. Frowning, she scrubs at the tacky blood, then at her smudged mascara. She needs sleep, an ice pack, and a nice, hot shower.

All three seem equally impossible.

It feels like hours watching her surroundings, so much that it makes her yawn and her shoulders start to slump. To keep herself awake, she presses the power button on his phone. It comes to life immediately, displaying thirty missed calls, seven voicemails, and ten texts. Because he didn't even bother to put any security on it other than a swipe unlock, she snoops.

Twenty-two of the missed calls are from someone he's recorded as _S_ , eight of them from someone listed as _D_. The voicemails she doesn't touch, but she scrolls through the text messages, all from the same S. They increase in intensity with each one:

 _Report._

 _Ollie you missed check in - call me._

 _Is it done? Call._

 _Ollie answer your damn phone. Now._

 _Digg says you didn't answer him either. We're starting to worry._

 _I'm done screwing with you. I'm heading out to site. It better be done._

 _I see a lot of bodies but not hers. You better answer me or the next one's gonna be yours._

 _Digg's threatening to report you rogue, Ollie. I can't save you much longer. Call me._

 _There was a survivor. He's down but he saw you with the girl. There better be one hell of an explanation for this._

 _Goddamn it. Ollie what the fuck have you done? CALL ME NOW._

When the door opens, she jumps, releasing a long breath when Oliver slides into the driver's seat. She stares, wide-eyed at the idea of getting caught, but he only drops the tablet and thumb drive into her lap as he turns the key. "How many missed calls do I have?" is all he asks.

"Thirty," she replies after finding her voice. He winces. "Most of them are from S—whoever that is." She flicks through the texts again. "S texted you, too, by the way."

He runs a hand over his face. "How furious is she?" he questions, pulling back into traffic.

"Very," Felicity replies. Hesitant, she adds, "She must be a pretty good friend because she kept… Digg? From reporting you rogue." Scrolling through the texts a third time, she adds, "I think she's worried about you."

"She does that," he mutters. Glancing over at Felicity, he states, "You're not safe. As long as they think you're alive, they'll be after you. But if you're dead, your information dies with you." Felicity swallows at the implications of his words, but Oliver reminds her why her fears aren't warranted. "I know a safe place you can stay. You can sift through your information and have access to our servers." He falters. "I think we'll have to fake your death."

"But my mom—" she protests immediately.

"You can call her after the funeral," Oliver promises. "But we need it to look real for a while." He sighs again. "Felicity, I know it isn't fair and I haven't given you any reason to so far, but… I'm asking you to trust me. To trust in my friends. To trust that I'll keep you safe until we can expose Abstergo." He frowns. "If you can't, I'll help you disappear."

"You're wrong," she blurts. "You've given me every reason to trust you." Tentatively, her hand reaches for his, and Oliver's fingers wind through her own. "Just one question," she asks. He glances toward her in a silent request to continue. "Why me? I mean, you've taken down targets before, right?" His nod isn't necessary at this point, but it confirms her suspicions. "So why is it me that you saved?"

"I don't know," is his reply. It would frustrate her, but the words drip with sincerity. It isn't a refusal to answer, but an admission of its own. "There was just… something about you," he confesses. "I've… never seen a target as a person before, but you…" He squeezes her hand. "You weren't just a target. Not to me."

"Well, that's…" What it is, Felicity isn't quite sure. All she's sure of is that her eyes droop closed before she can figure it out.

When she falls asleep, her hand is still in Oliver's.

* * *

Cold sears through the sore side of her face. Felicity frowns at it, trying to make sense of everything. Slowly it comes back to her: Oliver, the assassin who saved her life. The drive and the men who were after it. Falling asleep in Oliver's car.

Voices break her concentration. "—is _pride_ , Oliver," a deep male voice is saying. "Your father led the Brotherhood. You're the best assassin in the organization, and by rights, you should have been the next Mentor. But Malcolm is, and you don't trust him or his orders. This isn't about her—this is about _you_. This is about sticking it to the guy who's sitting on the throne that should be yours."

"I'm not a vengeful person, Digg," a familiar voice replies. Oliver. Felicity releases a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

Someone else snorts. "No, you're a fucking moron," a light, breezy female voice replies. "I told you to send me, Digg. He gets distracted by anything with boobs."

"You're one to talk, Sara," Oliver retorts. His tone sounds almost playful. "Why did you lose that target in Morocco again?"

"Because the gorgeous woman at the baccarat table was flirting with me," Sara replies without shame. "But I got her number and the sex was mind-blowing. And you still caught the target, so everyone was happy. That's the difference: the mission was completed anyway. Yours is currently asleep on the cot, and your mission was _not_ to take her somewhere safe to she could sleep, Ollie."

Felicity rubs at her eyes, staring at the three of them gathered around a set of desks in the middle of the room. She squints through the low lighting at the image they present. The first man is the size of the other two put together, with arms bigger than she's ever seen outside of Popeye cartoons. Despite the glare on his face, his eyes are still kind. Of the three, he looks the most modern, in a t-shirt, leather jacket, and jeans.

Her eyes focus on the woman second. She's small and blonde with a round face and a cute smirk, but the all-black garb that looks so much like Oliver's green robes hints that she isn't as sweet as she appears. A silver staff is in one hand, and when she rubs at her nose, Felicity notices the dusting of freckles there.

The last in the group, though, is what draws her attention. He sits on a stool with sagging shoulders and a weary expression. He's dressed in a black t-shirt and green leather pants, both of which cling tightly enough to hint at all the muscle she should have noticed before but is _definitely_ noticing now. A white bandage is wrapped around his right arm, just above the wrist where she knows his tracker to have been. His brown hair sticks up in all directions as he stares at the floor, as though he's been running his hands through it.

"Unless you meant making me sleep with the fishes," Felicity blurts as she rises from the cot.

Three sets of eyes focus on her at once, but the only set she cares about are impossibly blue. A white, vertical scar runs under his right eye. Both it and the crooked nose create a contrast to the dimpled smile he throws her. All Felicity can do for a moment is stare because if she knew Oliver was this attractive, she _definitely_ would have wanted to see his face.

The first words are, predictably, from him. Sliding off the rickety stool without a sound, Oliver takes a few quiet steps toward her. "Hey," he says gently. "How are you holding up?"

"Half of my face feels frozen, but I'm not dead, so I guess I can't complain," Felicity answers, shrugging. "Well, technically if I was dead, I couldn't complain, either. But I'm saying that tonight could have been a lot worse, not that I'd think about complaining." It takes her a moment to realize that he's trying not to laugh. It's a nice grin, though. "But you knew that."

"You're cute," Sara declares, eyes focused on Felicity.

"You're badass," Felicity counters.

"Damn it," Sara swears, walking up to pat Oliver on the back. "I like her, Ollie." She turns to the third member of their little team. "We can't kill her, Digg. She's… _likeable_." Somehow it manages to sound like an insult. "Can we keep her?"

Digg rolls his eyes to the ceiling as if praying for strength before releasing a long-suffering sigh. "She's not a _pony_ , Sara," he replies evenly. "She's a human being." Shaking his head, he adds, "But you two removed your trackers, so I guess we're in this together." He joins the other two, offering Felicity his hand. She shakes it. "They call me Diggle. I guess you can, too, if you want." The two assassins earn accusatory looks. "I guess you can call me their handler, but basically I'm a babysitter for two very big children with access to weapons."

He frowns. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Smoak, I have to go report two rogue assassins and find a cadaver that matches your description so we can fake your death." Diggle's head tilts to the side. "Since you're a rational human being—which is more than can be said for these two—you're in charge. If they kill anyone besides each other, it's on your head."

Sara dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand as Diggle disappears up the stairs. "Come on," she says, offering her right hand. While it has all five fingers, the hand resting on her thigh is short a ring finger, removed in the same way as Oliver's. Apparently he isn't the only one proficient with the Hidden Blade of Dismemberment. "I'll get you some clean clothes and then you can take a bath and get some rest."

Felicity takes the hand, but after Sara helps her to her feet, she stops short. Oliver says nothing, just watching her with those too-intense eyes. "I'll be up in a second," Felicity assures her, eyes never leaving Oliver's.

Sara sighs. "Fine. I'll give you five minutes." She shoves Oliver's shoulder before walking off toward the other end of the space. "You two better not be naked when I come back."

When the door shuts, Felicity finds herself out of words to say. She meant to thank him, but now she isn't sure that's enough. Somehow her hand finds its way to his face, and Oliver's eyes drift shut under her touch. A sudden burst of bravery hits her, and she acts before she can lose her nerve, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek.

Oliver's eyes fly open immediately. When she pulls away, his eyes narrow at her. "What was that for?" he asks her, voice low and rough in the small space.

"You saved me," she replies with a shrug.

With a soft smile, he counters, "I think you saved me first."


End file.
